An improvised bar was set up along one wall. The rest of the furnishings consisted of mismatched tables and a wild assortment of chairs. They sat willy-nilly on top of the diagonal parking slots and the grease spots centered between the white lines.
The saloon’s clientele came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, but they all had certain things in common. They were dressed for the outdoors, they were heavily armed, and they were doing business. Most of it consisted of straightforward “I’ll give a John Deere ‘Trapper’ jack-knife for your magnifying glass” type of barter. But darker bargains were being struck as well, at packed tables where burly men and hard-faced women eyed each other over drinks.
One man sat alone. His name was Joseph Capelli. He wore a knit cap pulled down over his ears, a black sweater, and military-style wool pants. A pistol rode in the shoulder holster under his left arm. His shotgun was within easy reach, too, as was the Marksman rifle he wore strapped to a pack frame.
Capelli was finishing a huge steak as a waitress delivered a second mug of home-brewed beer. She had blond hair, steely blue eyes, and was wearing a short skirt. The latter being a surefire tip-getter. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No. What do I owe you?” Capelli’s voice was hard and inflectionless.
“A box of .22s, five twelve-gauge shotgun shells, or half a dozen rifle rounds,” she said in a singsong voice. “The boss prefers 30-06 cartridges, but 30-30s are okay, and he’s willing to consider .303s.”
Capelli’s sage-green Type N-3 military parka was hanging on the back of his chair. He slipped a hand into a pocket, felt for the bottle, and pulled it out. “How ’bout this? One hundred tablets of Bayer aspirin. Never opened.”
The waitress accepted the bottle and examined it more closely. “How do I know they’re real? The boss’ll take it out of my pay if they aren’t.”
“They’re real,” he assured her. “And so is this.” The lipstick appeared as if by magic. It was one of six tubes he had come across in a previously looted five-and-dime. A look of greed appeared on the woman’s face as the bottle of aspirin went into the sack that hung at her side and the bribe disappeared into her bra. “Thanks, mister.” Then she was gone.
Having paid for dinner, it was time for Capelli to enjoy his second mug of home-brewed beer. It was full-bodied, and reasonably smooth, but a little too sweet for his taste. Capelli’s thoughts were interrupted as a little boy in a plaid coat dashed into the room and went over to speak with the man behind the bar. The bartender had slicked-back hair and two days of salt-and-pepper stubble. He listened, nodded, and rang a silver bell, which made a gentle, tinkling sound. “Quiet! Two Hunter Drones are sniffing around outside.”
The Chimeran machines could detect heat. Capelli knew that. But sound? That wasn’t entirely clear. It was a good idea to play it safe, though. So all of the customers were careful to minimize their movements, and keep their voices down, until the bartender rang the silver bell again.
That was when Capelli heard a rustling sound and turned to find that a big, bearlike man was standing next to his table. “Mr. Capelli? My name’s Locke. Alvin Locke. Mind if I sit down?”
Capelli opened his mouth to reply, but the other man had already dumped his pack on the floor and taken a seat. “I’m looking for a runner,” Locke announced. “And people tell me that you’re one of the best.”
“I’m still alive.”
Locke chuckled. “And that’s a mighty fine recommendation. Especially these days.”
Locke opened his mouth as if to continue, but stopped when he heard a low and very menacing growl. He turned to discover a large dog looking up at him with teeth bared. The animal looked a lot like a German shepherd but had a Mohawk-like ridge of fur that ran the length of his spine. “Is that your dog?” Locke inquired nervously.
“Nope. Rowdy belongs to himself.”
“Then why is he growling at me?”
“Because you’re sitting in his seat.”
Locke got up, circled around the table, and sat down.
After jumping up onto the vacated chair, the dog sat on his haunches and yawned. “What’s so special about that particular chair?” Locke wanted to know.
“I’m right-handed,” Capelli replied, tossing a chunk of steak up into the air. With an audible snap, Rowdy intercepted the piece of meat and gulped it down.
Locke grinned. “Makes sense. So, like I was saying, I need a runner.”
Capelli nodded. The U.S. Mail was a thing of the past, so anyone who wanted to send a letter or package badly enough hired a runner. And that was the way he’d been making his living ever since the Army kicked him out. So people knew about him. That was how most clients came his way—through referrals. “How big is the package? And what’s the destination?”
“I’m the package,” Locke replied. “And the destination is Haven, Oklahoma.”
Capelli opened one of the pockets on his pack, withdrew a well-worn Texaco road map, and opened it up. Then, after a minute or so, he put it away again. “Sorry, Mr. Locke, I can’t help you. I specialize in short runs. No more than a couple hundred miles or so. Your destination is at least twice that. Plus we’re talking about thirty-five or forty days of travel through territory I’m not familiar with. That adds more danger. So, I suggest you find someone else.” As if to signal the end of the conversation, a piece of gristle soared into the air and disappeared with a snap.
“I see,” Locke replied thoughtfully. “My sister and her family live in Haven and, since I have no family of my own, I plan to join them. It was a nice little town back before the Chimera shot it up. And it could be again, because what the stinks don’t know is that people still live there. Not on the surface, mind you, but underground, where a network of tunnels tie their homes together.
“I had a good hiding place and enough supplies to last me for ten years up near Glenwood Springs,” Locke continued. “But, after spending the last couple of years in hiding, I came to the conclusion that mere survival isn’t enough. I want to be part of something, I want to help make life better, and if that means walking a few hundred miles, then so be it. But I’m a businessman, Mr. Capelli, or was back before the shit hit the fan, so I lack the skills to make the journey on my own. That’s why I need a runner. I hope you’ll reconsider. If you’ll take me to Haven I’ll give you ten of these right now—and ten more when we arrive.”
Locke pushed a 1920 gold piece through a puddle of beer. It came to rest next to Capelli’s mug. The runner pushed it back.
“Put that away. Half the people in this saloon would slit your throat for a tube of Ipana toothpaste.”
Like so many other things, the American monetary system was a thing of the past. Most business transactions were handled via barter. But precious metals still had value to those willing to bet on some sort of future. Locke smiled as he made the coin disappear. “But not you, Mr. Capelli, or that’s what I hear. They say you’re an honest man.”
Capelli took a sip of beer and pushed his plate to the right. Three squares of carefully cut meat were waiting for Rowdy and the dog hurried to lap them up. “You could join a community here in Colorado. New ones start up all the time.”
“And they fail just as frequently,” Locke replied. “Usually because of internal dissention, a communicable disease, or an attack of some sort.”
“So what makes Haven different?”
Locke was quick to follow up on a possible opening. “They have elected leaders, some of whom were smart enough to see what was coming, and lay in supplies before the stinks took control of North America. The soil under the town is reasonably easy to dig through, they have a good source of water, and a doctor! A young one, thank God. The place isn’t perfect, of course, nothing is, but there’s a chance. And that, my friend, is better than nothing.”